


beat, incomplete

by andsoitgoes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, possessive!Enjolras, the lyrics game should always decide netflix queues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsoitgoes/pseuds/andsoitgoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>16:51</i><br/><b>Eponine:</b><br/>apparently I’m a sadist who lives in sin with my pretentious boyfriend on mount everest. and now my entire building is privy to that information. good luck getting him back down without starting world war three</p>
<p>Grantaire gets the 'flu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beat, incomplete

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, at all, ever. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

_14:27_

**R:**

hi

 

_14:27_

**R:**

i know youre in class right now

 

_14:27_

**R:**

but if oyu could call me when you get out that would be cool

 

_14:28_

**R:**

not an emergency, promise! just need a favor <3 thank u xx

**3 Missed Calls from : UNKNOWN NUMBER**

_14:41_

_14:42_

_15:06_

**1 New Voicemail from : UNKNOWN NUMBER**

_15:06_

 

_15:41_

**Apollo:**

Hey, just got your messages

 

_15:41_

**Apollo:**

Plus three missed calls from a blocked number. And a voicemail.

 

_15:42_

**Apollo:**

Which I am now going to listen to. Please tell me you didn’t do anything illegal Grantaire

 

**1 New Voicemail from : UNKNOWN NUMBER**

_15:06_

_“Hello, this is Nurse Dubois from the Health and Wellness center at the University of London calling for Enjolras. I have you listed as the emergency contact number for Grantaire, who’s in the office right now- it seems he’s caught a bit of a bug, and it would be in his best interest to go home and recuperate. If you could please phone us back when you get this message, it would be much appreciated. Thank you!”_

 

“Hello, University of London Health and Wellness Center, Nurse Dubois speaking. How can I help you?”

 

“Yes, hi, this is Enjolras. I received a call about thirty minutes ago concerning Grantaire?”

 

“Oh, hello Enjolras! Yes, we have Grantaire here. He’s feeling a bit under the weather. I think he’s got a touch of the flu that’s been going around. He fainted-”

Enjolras catches a bit of Grantaire’s voice from the background as the nurse pauses. “Sorry, _lost consciousness_ during his studio class and bumped his head on an piece of equipment, and he has a medium-grade fever.”

 

He _knows_ it’s not serious, that if Grantaire were actually ill, he wouldn’t be sitting in the damn University wellness center waiting to be released, but he still feels the rush of adrenaline as the nurse’s words.

 

“How is he feeling now?”

 

The nurse hums to herself, and Enjolras can hear heels clicking on linoleum in the background. “He still has the fever, and he’s a bit… _silly_ , shall we say. It’d be in his best interest to go home- with an escort, if possible.”

 

Enjolras breathes out a soft sigh as he checks the time.

 

“I have a project to present in… fifteen minutes, actually. Can I get someone else to bring him home?“

 

“Sure, honey,” she chirps, paper shuffling in the background. “I have another contact number here, a _Montparnasse_? I can give him a call to see if he’s available.”

 

Enjolras’ stomach gives a painful clench, and like _hell_ if he isn’t going to break into the wellness office himself and delete Montparnasse from every single record of Grantaire’s. And then he is going to have a long and serious discussion with his boyfriend about the importance of updating emergency contact records periodically, especially when said records are concerning violent, manipulative assholes of ex-boyfriends.

 

“ _No_ , no, that is an … outdated contact.” The nurse gives a knowing noise that’s a breath again from _amused_ and Enjolras grits his teeth. “I’ll have one of our mutual friends pick him up and stay with him until I’m done with my presentation, if that’s all right.”

 

“Of course, love. Just have them come to the desk and ask for Nurse Dubois. Take care, hon, and have a good day.”

 

Enjolras thanks her for taking care of Grantaire, and hangs up. He has ten minutes before his class, which is conveniently all the way on the other side of campus, so he’s forced to text as he elbows his way through a slow-moving group of freshmen.

 

_15:51_

**Apollo:**

For the record, I consider passing out and hitting your head on studio equipment an emergency

 

_15:51_

**Apollo:**

Especially when they call your /emergency contact/, R

 

_15:51_

**Apollo:**

How are you feeling?

 

_15:51_

**R:**

sorry

 

_15:52_

**R:**

didnt wanna worry u

 

_15:52_

**Apollo:**

Mission not accomplished.

 

_15:53_

**R:**

dont yell at me i feel like poo :(

 

_15:53_

**Apollo:**

I know, I’m sorry

 

_15:54_

**Apollo:**

I’ll see if Eponine can come and get you, okay? I’ll come get you from her flat when I’m done with class

 

_15:56_

**R:**

aye aye captain

 

_15:57_

**R:**

good luck with ur thing love ya <3 sorry im sick

 

_15:57_

**Apollo:**

It’s not your fault, stop that

 

_15:58_

**Apollo:**

Love you too. I’ll pick you up as soon as I can

 

_15:59_

**R:**

ty xx

 

 

Of _course_ , his class runs late again as his professor finds something to discuss on every single slide of his group’s presentation. It’s one of those required core class on 17th century literature that people only take because they need filler credits for graduation. Enjolras could not give less of a shit about Donne’s _anything_ , much less his syntax and pacing in his poetry, but Jehan had enthusiastically volunteered to write the vast majority of Enjolras’ portion of the project. The original plan had been to bullshit his way through the presentation and use his _Enjolras-magic_ (Courfeyrac’s words, obviously) to answer questions. All Enjolras could think about throughout the presentation and subsequent third-degree question session was Grantaire. Grantaire, hitting his head on something sharp in the studio and bleeding out. Grantaire, with a sky-high fever as his body shuts down, or Grantaire choking on his own vomit alone in the studio.

 

He’s used to the constant worry that come along with his boyfriend; Enjolras is someone who doesn’t do _moderation_ , and it would be foolish to assume that he would be anything else than obsessive over the health and safety of the sometimes-wayward man who shares his bed, his flat, his life. Grantaire is forever self-depreciating, sometimes depressed, and usually careless. The alcohol doesn’t help, and neither do Bahorel and Feuilly’s concepts of weekend activities.  Throw in fevers and passing out and _emergency contacts_ , and Napoleon himself could have been sitting in the front row of the lecture and Enjolras would’ve never even noticed.

 

All of this, of course, is exponentiated by the very-real possibility that _Montparnasse_ could have been collecting Grantaire from the nurse’s office. _Montparnasse_ , Grantaire’s shitty ex-boyfriend from when Enjolras was still too focused on his social movements to really pay any attention to Grantaire.   _Montparnasse_ , the same controlling asshole who led Grantaire down the primrose path to drugs and crime and left him there to fend for himself. Enjolras is not a jealous man, but he thinks of Montparnasse _touching_ Grantaire and _looking_ at Grantaire and _speaking_ to Grantaire, and he actively contemplates motivated homicide.

 

Okay, so maybe Enjolras is a jealous man. That doesn’t make Montparnasse any less of a self-serving douche.

 

He thinks of how far Grantaire has come since his last relationship; he’s back in school, making art, practicing his kickboxing, off the drugs and cutting back on the alcohol. The dark sleep-bruises between his eyes, omnipresent during his time with Montparnasse, are finally gone. He’s put on some muscle (and Enjolras could pull off a Scarlett O’Hara-worthy swoon when Grantaire chooses to go sans shirt around the flat- Jesus, his _back_ ) and his good days have outweighed his bad for months now. The thought of losing that easy grin or belly-deep laughter keeps Enjolras up at night sometimes, curling close to Grantaire as he lulls himself back to sleep by counting the gentle puffs of breath against his chest.

 

The worst part of it all is that Enjolras knows it was partially his own fault. Yes, Montparnasse was manipulative and conniving and ruthlessly careless with Grantaire. Yes, Grantaire sets himself up for a lot of his downfalls with his deeply rooted self-destructive tendencies, but Enjolras thinks of each time he insulted Grantaire at the Musain, of each time he brushed off Grantaire’s comments or called him out for being _drunk again, how pathetic_. Enjolras thinks of his uninterested disdain for Grantaire during the Montparnasse time, and his heart aches a little. Grantaire was vulnerable, and Montparnasse saw that. He played with Grantaire like a lion teases its prey, amused by its panic and desperate attempt to please the lion, _anything_ to keep the lion happy so it might be spared. That’s how Montparnasse saw Grantaire: dinner and a show. Take the kid in, use his talent to make money and use his body for yourself, and leave him in the gutter when it’s over.

 

See, he thinks of that, and then he thinks of fever-delirious Grantaire (with a head injury, no less) being released into Montparnasse’s care, and his vision tinges red.

 

So, no, he did not present his project on John shitty Donne’s syntax and pacing as well as he should have. Enjolras still walks out of the room with an A (the professor has a massive crush on him, which is irritating on the best of days), swiping his phone open to twenty-one new texts, from both Grantaire and Eponine.

 

_16:01_

**Eponine:**

leavin’ now to go grab R!

 

_16:13_

**R:**

youre so fine

_16:13_

**R:**

and youre mine

 

_16:14_

**R:**

ill b yoooours

 

_16:14_

**R:**

til the end of timeeee

 

_16:14_

**R:**

ill let you edit the netflix queue if you know who sings that w.o google

 

Enjolras curses under his breath as he exits the building. There’s no way he knows whatever artist Grantaire’s talking about- Grantaire’s musical taste ranges from Mozart to Dixie Chicks to that dumbass with a mouse head- and he’s terrified of the day that Grantaire decides to use his movie night to watch a season of that garbage reality show him and Courfeyrac are obsessed with.

 

_16:15_

**R:**

do not cheat i will know

 

_16:20_

**Eponine:**

the football has been secured, mr. president

 

_16:20_

**Eponine:**

operation dropkick a success

 

_16:20_

**Eponine:**

seriously though he’s fine- little sleepy, keeps singing madonna (??)

 

Enjolras grins. Goodbye, shitty reality show, and hello to _Mermaids: The Body Found_.

 

_16:23_

**Eponine:**

photographic evidence, mr. president

 

He opens the attached picture, barely dodging a girl in heels sprinting down the sidewalk in the other direction. Grantaire’s curled up in the passenger seat of Eponine’s car, head pressed against the window. He looks a little flushed and there’s the beginnings of a _nasty_ bruise on his right temple, but he’s in one piece and damn if Enjolras’ heart doesn’t ache at the sight of him.

 

_16:51_

**Eponine:**

jesus he is such a baby. it took me twenty minutes to get him up the stairs

 

_16:51_

**Eponine:**

apparently I’m a sadist who lives in sin with my pretentious boyfriend on mount everest. and now my entire building is privy to that information. good luck getting him back down without starting world war three

 

_16:53_

**Eponine:**

you owe me big time, prez.

 

_16:54_

**Eponine:**

jokes, jokes.

 

_17:22_

**R:**

hi are you almost done

 

_17:22_

**R:**

not feelin so hot

 

_17:23_

**R:**

not a metaphor i am freezing to death and eponine failed kindergarten

 

Enjolras doesn’t even want to try to decipher that. He picks up his pace and reaches the bus stop just as the bus pulls up- lo and behold, something goes right today, as it’s on the line that’ll take him straight to Eponine and Combeferre’s building complex. There’s a double seat open at the back, and Enjolras throws his backpack down before reading the rest of the texts.

 

_17:24_

**Eponine:**

do not listen to R he’s mad because I won’t let him put on Combeferre’s fucking parka because he has a temperature of 40 degrees

 

_17:27_

**R:**

sos mayday eponine runs a secret police state im being oppressed

 

_17:28_

**R:**

help me enjolras-wan apollo youre my only hope

 

Enjolras closes out of the last text message and checks the time: ten ‘til 6. He’s still a good twenty minutes away from Eponine’s flat in this traffic, so he hits _call_ and waits for the line to connect. Grantaire’s rings straight through to voicemail, and Enjolras nearly throws his phone across the bus in his haste to hang up before hearing the greeting. Grantaire had recorded it while he was still with Montparnasse, and the dull, croaky robotic voice that asks the caller to please leave a brief message doesn’t even _sound_ like him. Not anymore, at least. Enjolras has yet to be able to leave him a voicemail, preferring to text Grantaire multiple paragraphs instead if he has to.

 

Eponine answers her phone on the third ring.

 

“Hello, Mr. President. Are you calling about your stray?”

 

“Ha. I’m on my way over now. How is he?”

 

Eponine _hmmm_ s before answering. “He’s fine. His fever’s pretty steady at 40 right now. And he has no self-control or maturity, so he complained about being cold and cried until he got his hands on some of our hoodies.”

 

Enjolras frowns, gripping his phone a little tighter in his hand. “He _cried_? Actual tears?”

 

“Nah, they were definitely fever-induced crocodile tears,” she says easily. Enjolras loosens his death-grip on his phone a little, the plastic sighing in relief as he does. “Just as a heads up- I don’t know what they gave him at the wellness center, but he is _loopy_. ‘Ferre says he’s fine, before you freak out-” Enjolras clenches his jaw so hard it hurts up to his temples. “- and that he’s shadowed like twenty cases over the last two days with this flu at the clinic, and they’ve all been like this.”

 

“Can I talk to R?”

 

Eponine agrees, and Enjolras listens to her call Grantaire’s name and rustling fabric for a good minute before he picks up with a sleepy “’Lo?”

 

“It’s me,” Enjolras says softly, pausing when Grantaire makes a pleased noise. “I’m on my way to Eponine’s. How’re you feeling?”

 

Grantaire stays quiet for a moment. “Not so great,” he admits, and _wow_ Enjolras is going to need a heart transplant when this is over, it’s taken so many hits. “Head hurts. Cold. Threw up buncha times.”

 

“I’m sorry, R. I’ll be there soon, and we can go home. Do you want anything from the store?”

 

“No. Just wanna go home with you. I miss you, ‘jolras. Really don’t feel well.”

 

“I know, love,” Enjolras says, and he never, _ever_ uses pet names with Grantaire, but he knows how much it means to his boyfriend when he does. True to form, Grantaire whimpers slightly at it, but lets Enjolras continue. “I’ll be there in…ten minutes, okay? And then we can go home and you can pick a movie or we can take a nap. Alright?”

 

Grantaire mumbles an “okay”, and Enjolras hangs up feeling significantly worse than before he called.

 

The bus takes another fifteen or so minutes to reach the stop on the corner of Eponine’s street. He hikes up his backpack and hops off the bus, taking a sharp left into the convenience store a couple of doors down from her building. There’s not much in the way of selection, but Enjolras manages to find an only very slightly dusty blue Gatorade and three cans of Campbell’s soup that haven’t expired yet. He spends a good minute in front of the frozen section, trying to remember what flavor Grantaire will actually eat- the man hates ice cream, and Enjolras will never, ever understand the way his boyfriend’s mind works. Still, the flu always comes with a signature sore throat and Enjolras will be damned if Grantaire spends the next two weeks croaking around the flat while he’s trying to get work done.

 

He finally settles on a pint of vanilla (the plainest, and therefore the one that will be easiest to get Grantaire to try) and pays for his impromptu care package before heading back out to the street. Dodging the suspicious-looking puddles on the sidewalk, he comes to Eponine’s building and presses the buzzer for “E&C - 4B” and ducks into the alcove to wait for the door to open. He takes the stairs two at a time and chides himself for never participating in any non-horizontal aerobic activities as he knocks on the door. He’s only joined Grantaire at the gym once before, and he had quickly decided that the only thing more distracting than his boyfriend shirtless at home is his boyfriend shirtless at the gym.

 

 Eponine’s tired smile as she opens the door sends all thoughts of sweaty, muscle-y Grantaires flying out of his mind. “Why, hello, Enjolras. You must want something, seeing as how you never bother to come over here otherwise.”

 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at her teasing tone- he spends more time at their flat than he spends at his own, most of the time- and leans a shoulder against the doorjamb. “I heard that you have something of mine.”

 

“You admit it! Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Apollo. Which means that it is technically _your_ responsibility to clean the puke out of my bathroom and disinfect the flat.”

 

“Consider it payback for all the times you and Bahorel have trashed my place.”

 

She grins wider at that, and steps aside to let Enjolras in. He only takes a couple of steps into the doorway before turning to her, solemn this time. “Seriously, though, I really can get someone in here-”

 

Eponine cuts him off with a punch to the shoulder. “Shut up, I was just kidding. He’s my best friend- it’s the least I could do. Plus,” she continues, turning and walking out towards the living room. “Now you _and_ Grantaire owe me favors. I like this position of power over you, Mr. President. It’s a heady feeling.”

 

Enjolras follows her into the room, rubbing his shoulder with a scowl. Eponine is strong as shit and she’s taken enough self-defense classes that even her play-punches hurt. He looks around the living room for Grantaire, only to realize that the misshapen lump on the couch _is_ Grantaire. Eponine’s peeling blankets off of him, murmuring softly into the mass that’s closest to the arm of the sofa.

 

“Hey, R. Can you wake up for a sec? Your prince has arrived to whisk you back to the castle.”

 

The lump moans and moves slightly. Enjolras watches as the heel of Grantaire’s foot slowly emerge from the end of the blankets. His head lifts out of the other end shortly after, blinking and smacking his lips.

 

“’jolras?” Enjolras doesn’t even remember moving, but suddenly he’s on the other side of the room, kneeling next to the sofa with his palm cupped against Grantaire’s cheek. He nearly drops his hand right away, Grantaire’s skin is so fever-hot.

 

“Hi,” he says softly, wary of any potential fever-induced sensitivity. “How are you feeling?” Grantaire makes a weak raspberry noise and gives a thumbs down. Eponine snickers behind Enjolras. “Should’ve guessed as much, I suppose. Can you stand up?”

 

Grantaire finally opens his eyes, and they’re glassy with huge, dilated pupils that scan Enjolras’ face for a good twenty seconds before they close again as he rests his head heavy against Enjolras’ hand.

 

“Has he been like this the whole time?” Enjolras asks, wincing at the bite to his tone. Eponine comes around to sit on the arm of the couch, carding her fingers through Grantaire’s curls.

 

“He’s been getting progressively worse,” a deep voice that is definitely _not_ Eponine’s comes from the doorway, and Enjolras turns to see Combeferre standing there, hands in the front pockets of his trousers. “But everyone I’ve seen with this strain going around has done the same. Nothing to worry about, Enjolras.” Combeferre offers a comforting smile as he comes to stand next to the couch.

 

“He hit his head, ‘Ferre,” Enjolras mutters, but the growl’s gone from his voice at the presence of his old friend.

 

“He’s seen worse, Apollo,” Eponine says quietly. Enjolras debates throttling her, but the lump on the couch sniffles and she _did_ nurse Grantaire while Enjolras was in class.

 

“Actually, speaking of- Ep, here, stay with R for a second-” Eponine makes a noise in protest of being left out of secrets, but still puts Grantaire’s head on her thigh with only a scowl. Enjolras stands up, knees creaking, and tilts his head towards the kitchen. Combeferre follows like the good best friend that he is, bless him.

 

“Can you do me a favor?”

 

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. He leans against the kitchen counter and folds his arms across his chest and says with a gentle smile on his face, “You mean in addition to watching your invalided boyfriend all afternoon?” When Enjolras doesn’t grin in response, his face falls into business-Combeferre territory. “Sorry, of course I can. What do you need?”

 

“Can you or Joly access any files in the Health and Wellness office at school?”

 

Enjolras watches confusion flick across Combeferre’s face as he tries to follow the line of thought from the previous conversation. Impatient, Enjolras continues, “A certain individual is still considered an emergency contact on R’s health files. I would appreciate it if you could remove said individual. From all his files, actually. If possible.”

 

Combeferre’s eyes narrow as understanding settles into his expression. “Of course. I assume discretion is needed?” At Enjolras’ nod, he purses his lips. “I’ll work on it once you leave.”

 

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, softly.  The overbearing weight of Grantaire’s past that constantly rests on his shoulders eases a bit, knowing that Combeferre will take care of one of the few remaining physical artifacts of last year. Enjolras will still shoulder the nightmares, the panic attacks, and the fear of Grantaire being out alone at night (and during the day, if he’s being honest with himself), but knowing that his oldest friend can ease the burden a little helps him sleep at night. Ever the independent, stubborn individualist, Enjolras had learned very early on in his relationship with Grantaire that he needs to ask for help too, sometimes.

 

They stand in the kitchen quietly for a moment, listening to the soft echoes of Eponine’s voice as she convinces Grantaire to sit up. Enjolras lets his head drop onto Combeferre’s shoulder, warm and steady and familiar, closing his eyes against the most stressful day he’s had in a while. He opens them again when Combeferre’s voice rumbles up through his chest.

 

“Montparnasse is really still on the records?”

 

Enjolras sighs, bone-tired of that man appearing around every corner when he and Grantaire least expect it. “Yeah. Second name down the list. The nurse offered to call him when I said I had a presentation.” There is guilt, there, stirring down deep in Enjolras’ belly. Guilt that he wasn’t able to collect Grantaire himself, and guilt that Grantaire is even ill at all. It seems so unfair to throw fevers and stomach viruses and bruises at him, after all he’s been through, and sometimes Enjolras sits in his bathroom late at night and allows himself a couple tears for it, mourning the man that Grantaire could have been if his life had been just a little different.

 

There’s guilt there, too- because as much as he would love to go back in time and stop Grantaire’s father from being an abusive drunk who introduced his son to alcohol at ten years old and stop Montparnasse from taking advantage of a boy who had been kicked down by everyone in his life, he’s not so sure he’d be able to. If Grantaire hadn’t been off-his-ass drunk that one night freshman year, Courfeyrac and Jehan never would have brought him home, and he never would have become part of Les Amis, and Enjolras never would have met him. That’s where the guilt lies, nestled in between his selfish streak and his love for Grantaire. He wouldn’t trade anything in the world for Grantaire’s early morning hair, or his notes scribbled onto coffee cups and paper plates throughout the flat, or even his mediocre attempts at cooking dinner on date nights. Not even the past, and that is Enjolras’ own burden to bear.

 

“I’m sure that you handled it with maturity and grace.” Combeferre must be able to sense his mood heading south, because he jostles Enjolras’ head gently and grins against the hand that pinches his side.

 

“I was the picture of composure and poise, _thank you very much_.”

 

“Oi! Come get your boyfriend, Apollo, before he pukes on my carpet. And I hope you didn’t want that ice cream, because it’s mine now.” Eponine’s voice cuts through the kitchen, and Enjolras lifts his head from Combeferre’s shoulder to see Grantaire standing (wobbling, really) next to the couch, wearing what looks like three different hoodies stacked on top of each other. The bruise on his temple stands out sharp against his pale skin and the fever flush, and his heavy-lidded eyes are vaguely more focused, but still glassy and dilated.

 

Combeferre nudges him forward. “Go and collect what’s yours, E. I’ll get started on the project.” Eponine’s head perks up, and she opens her mouth, presumably to demand information, before stopping at the look on Enjolras’ face.

 

“Feel better, Grantaire,” Combeferre calls as he walks to back towards their spare room, currently serving as an office. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

 

Grantaire mumbles something in response and twitches his fingers in Combeferre’s general direction. Enjolras steps forward and eases his arm around Grantaire. The fever radiates through the hoodies, and Eponine _really_ shouldn’t have let him put this many layers on. Plus, as much as Enjolras loves Combeferre, the sight of his boyfriend wearing his best friend’s clothes is tapping into his primal side.

 

“Let’s get you home, shall we?” he asks. Grantaire turns and presses his face into his neck, breathing hot against his skin. Enjolras has never seen his boyfriend this helpless; even when he’s crashing after a long night out or coming out of a panic attack, Grantaire still maintains some coherence- even if it’s just anger. Eponine notices, too, her eyes softening as she presses a quick kiss into Grantaire’s hair.

 

“Take care of him, okay? He’s very valuable goods ‘round here,” she says. “Also, he owes me from poker last weekend and I fully intend on cashing that in.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes but accepts the backpack she slings over his free arm. He watches, amused, as Eponine takes the now-liquid ice cream out of the convenience store bag and loops it over his wrist, expression challenging him to say something.

 

“Can you grab the door for me? I’ll hail a cab when we get down there.”

 

Eponine goes to the front door and the Enjolras-Grantaire complex follows, one short, invalid-laden step at a time. As they walk through the doorway, Enjolras drops a quick kiss on the crown of her head.

 

“Thank you. I really, really appreciate it. You’re a good friend to him, Ep.”

 

She rolls her eyes, but Enjolras catches the pleased smile that flickers across her lips.

 

“Yes, I know, I’m the best. Good luck with all… that,” she says flatly, motioning towards the limpet hanging off Enjolras’ right side.

 

Enjolras thinks that Combeferre must have his hands full with this one, and he knows that his friend wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Eponine shuts the door behind them, and Enjolras spends the next twenty minutes easing a whining, clinging Grantaire down the stairs. He is accused of several crimes, including cruel and unusual punishment, by the time they reach street-level. Enjolras’ luck has obviously improved today, because there’s a cab waiting right outside the door. However, Enjolras is not naïve enough to think it was fate, and he reminds himself to send Combeferre and Eponine a seriously huge Edible Arrangement as a thank-you gift.

 

Getting Grantaire into the car is a whole other ordeal, and the driver looks as though he wants to throw them both out to save his precious upholstery from Grantaire’s stomach contents. Eventually, they’re all buckled in, and as the car pulls away from the curb Grantaire puts his head back on Enjolras’ shoulder.

 

“My poor R,” Enjolras murmurs, resting his cheek against Grantaire’s head and lacing their fingers together where they rest against his leg. Grantaire groans and shoves his face further into Enjolras’ neck, probably drooling onto the collar of his shirt.

 

Enjolras cannot bring himself to care for the state of this clothes, though, and he is midway through Googling the number for Edible Arrangements when he remembers something.

 

“Grantaire. Grantaire. R. Grantaire, _Grantaire_.”

 

At Grantaire’s answering grunt, Enjolras leans over and whispers into his ear:

 

“Madonna.”

 

They are both silent for a moment until Grantaire picks up his head with obvious effort, narrowing his eyes at Enjolras.

 

“ _What_?”

 

Enjolras just smirks until Grantaire uses him as a human pillow again, mumbling fever dreams into his shoulder. Becoming the King of Netflix has never been easier. He goes back to his phone, chooses a large fruit basket for delivery to Eponine and Combeferre’s tomorrow, and hopes that they both like chocolate-covered pineapples shaped into flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! As a disclaimer: I don't actually hate John Donne, and Montparnasse is not actually a huge asshole.  
> Title and lyrics that Grantaire texts Enjolras are from Madonna's _Like A Virgin_.   
>  I may write another chapter from Grantaire's POV, depending on demand/time :)


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